On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair

Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair

Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude

Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.

Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano

Sometime before dawn
You curls in my dreams
And got me smiling
Like a promenading butterfly
Who aback;sights a garden phlox

I whirl enchanting on my cot
Until I hear the **** crow
And plug the melodrama
Though I wish relentless
I wing my arms like a baby
Thinking about you

I don't know how you do that
Or does it
But it seems you're an adept
Or probably a witch
To have cast such a spell on me

Ton!Ton! I picks my cellphone
And reads your messages
Thought as much,is her;the witch
Who incessantly sparks my match-sticks
And brighten my day

But am cowed,and wholly gobbled
Whenever I reminiscence about the oratories
"Nothing lasts forever"
So now tell me!
Your days and times
The protractions of your sojourn
And let me know"Witch

Though I'm hog-tied for your premium
I'm hog-tied for your rob too

Infatuated by a witch
©Historian E.Lexano

And so they dramatize
and play to empty minds
it is a Play by ghosts for ghosts
the imaginings of blanched cadavers
in ghoulish musings and oratories of deadbeats
full of bile and furies signifying their impotent desires
pale decaying sinners amok in mindless terror at their apparitions
groaning we are perpetually frightened so the living must be as well